Eyes propped open by the incessant thoughts that threaten to keep you staring up for the rest of your life, continuing to search for the relief that doesn’t exist. This is how you shrivel up and die in the tub full of self-hatred, in the bubbles drawn from the shadow close behind you. You don’t know how to do it like the rest of them, waking up and walking along and not having to fight off daydreams where a happy ending looks a lot like a fresh pile of dirt in the meadow. Knobby knees knock together and your feet won’t even still while you’re lying down. Always needing to run towards the “more,” the “better,” never finding solid ground to build a hiding place.